Hope
by AbsentDaydreamer
Summary: 1. In which Sherlock sneaks into Baker Street and has a moment of panic. When the consulting detective is losing all hope, can a certain Time Lord restore it? 2. In which John meets a strange blonde in a cafe.
1. Home

**Hello~ **

**Wholock, is in my mind, something that needs to happen. Even as , maybe a special in Children in Need or something. just NEEDS to happen. But it hasn't yet...**

**So I wrote this :P Do be kind and let me know what you think :P**

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Baker Street is empty, as he expected. The thought is a little sobering, and he takes the precious few minutes he has to scan the room intently for details. John is evidently living here still, the table cluttered, and a jumper thrown across the back of a chair. He finds that odd; he is so used to Johns immaculately tidy habits. John is the type who folds a dirty tea towel into little squares before placing it in the laundry. He irons his clothes to within an inch of its life. It is unnatural for him to be messy. That is Sherlock's job.

Newspapers, magazines, and all manner of paper fill the empty space on the coffee table, and he can see that one of the headlines blares out about his apparent confession and subsequent suicide. Why John would bother to keep such drivel is beyond him. It has crinkled, crumpled from overuse and he realises with a pang that John is obsessing.

There is only a single coffee ring staining the varnished surface. John is living alone. Sherlock isn't sure whether he is pleased by that notion, or not.

Emotions at the best of times annoy him, bothersome things that they are, but even more so when he cannot sufficiently identify them. There is a lump in his throat and his eyes burn a little, enough that he is forced to blink salty tears away.

Sorrow.

However, the rest of it is a hopelessly jumbled, tangled mess. He wants so desperately to tell John that he is alive. He does not dare to. He finds himself reduced to sneaking into his own flat in order to steal his own possessions and he must do so without telling John or Mrs Hudson, for fear of their lives.

Why on Earth he had thought it a good idea to get emotionally attached was beyond him, he thought bitterly. When did it ever become a good idea to care?

"Feeling regretful?"

The voice is quiet in the empty flat. He does not turn.

"i'll just be a moment more." He says with enforced casualness, equally quiet in the dim light. He stares down at an open magazine, at his own face and an article entitled, "Believe."

His acquaintance nods once, thoughtfully, a wave of brown hair flopping over his forehead. Dark brown eyes, so ancient and wonderful, survey the flat with mild interest.

"It's only a while longer." He says to Sherlock, staring at the skull on the mantlepiece. "and then no more sneaking about. Just until we stop the Master, or as he's calling himself, Moriarty. Until then, you'll just have to stay with me."

Sherlocks lips thin, turn pale in their anger.

"I wish you had thought to warn me that he was like you. I wish I had known he would not die so easily."

His voice wants desperately to rise, to shout and let some of this godforsaken frustration out. But he knows that Mrs Hudson is asleep in her own flat and so he cannot dare.

It trembles instead, faltering and he hates it with every fibre of his being.

The man in the doorway raises an eyebrow coolly, digging his hands into pinstripe pockets.

"Perhaps I had thought you would deduce it, Sherlock Holmes."

This makes a muscle in his jaw twitch.

"I am aware I missed the signs. But he didn't broadcast them like you did. He wanted to be hidden." He seethes, cursing himself for his own blatant stupidity. He knew Time Lords, or at least the signs to look out for. It was not his fault Moriarty hid his double heartbeat. Not his fault.

It was entirely his fault. He had placed John at risk by not seeing the signs. Had he realised that the man who challenged him was more than human, was more than they, in their limited knowledge could handle...

The thought overwhelms him for a moment, and he realises with ice cold dread that that he is exactly that -limited. He may well be a genius, above the norm, but he is human too. He cannot defeat that which he is less than.

His knees shake and he tumbles, collapses into his leather armchair. His head is in his hands. They are trembling. When did that happen?

"...Breathe, Sherlock." His acquaintance reminds him gently. This is not the first time that this has happened. It is embarrassing to think on it, or rather, it would be, if he were in any state to actually care.

He breathes.

"He is just like you." Sherlock says softly, not looking up. "He is far superior to us because he is more. He will just keep coming back, again and again and-"

"No." States the Doctor firmly. "Not greater, not ever greater. You forget, Sherlock, that you are human."

A short laugh echoes around the room and it takes a moment to realise that the sound is his own voice.

"That was rather my point."

"It isn't a weakness to be human." The Doctor states firmly. "Because to be human is so, _so_ wonderful. All those clever little ideas you get, all those hopes and fears and dreams and emotions!" His green eyes swirl with wonder and his tone is almost reverent.

"Distractions." Sherlock dismisses.

"No, not at all! You still don't get it!" The Doctor darts suddenly, his hands raising to gesture wildly. "Time Lords are limited. The Master, Moriarty, whatever...He is limited and he always will be, because _he isn't human_. He sees you all as animals, as silly, stupid little apes that don't stand a chance against him, but just look at you, Sherlock Holmes! You stood against him, not once, but twice and here you are, still fighting! You beat him at his own game and saved John didn't you?!"

Sherlock stares at the alien pacing across his living room.

"Didn't you?!"

"Yes." Sherlock admits, stunned.

The Doctor positively beams.

"So there. Now, should we go and stop him so that I can finally see John hit you for lying to him?"

Sherlock stands, tugs at his lapels so that they stand up, his trademark look.

"Shall we, Doctor?"

The Time Lord gestures to the door and then pauses, a finger raised.

"Don't you forget, once we've done this, you've my case to solve. Rose and I have got a bet on whether you can or can't do it."

Sherlock smirks.

"I'd get Rose to hand over her fiver then. The answer is already obvious and you've yet to give me all the details."

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**So did you love it, hate it? Leave a review in the little box! I'm considering doing maybe another chapter in which John runs into a blonde in a chip shop. Thoughts?**

**Until the next time!**

**AbsentDaydreamer xx**


	2. Chips with a stranger

**Well hi again! I've been a little late with all my stories right now, but here, have a second chapter of what was designed to be a one shot...there's one more chapter to go :) Cookies to those who review ;)**

**If anybody has any ideas for oneshots, be they crossover or otherwise, ask, I'd love to try out ideas :) **

**Disclaimer of doom: Neither Martin nor Billie are mine...I have plans to steal the rights for Doctor Who and Sherlock though. Deal with it BBC :)**

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"...Is that seat taken?"

John glances up from his paper, away from the article entitled "Suicide of Fake Genius", away from the lies, the rumours, and the false accusations that he has read far too many times to count.

There is a young woman stood across from the table, gesturing at the seat opposite him. He automatically goes to say yes, that Sherlock will be back any moment, but then he remembers. He forces a nod, his jaw tensed and she smiles, sliding onto the bench, a plate of chips in her hand.

He turns back to his article, clearing his throat, as she picks at her food, looking around the cafe. The words on his page blend into one seemingly never-ending string of lies and he is forced to tear his eyes away for a moment, his hands shaking with suppressed anger.

She is looking at the page facing her, her lips parting as she reads. Slowly, she pushes strands of blonde hair away from her face, and her gaze shifts back to her plate.

He watches as she pops a chip into her mouth, and then chews thoughtfully.

"You know, I reckon he was framed."

Her voice was thick with a typical Londoner accent. He stares at her for a long moment as she calmly picks up another chip. Surely she did not mean Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, what?" He asks her quietly, calmly, blinking at her and she smiles at him. The corners of her eyes crinkle as she does so, in a way he finds disarmingly cute.

" That detective bloke. You know him, the one with the hat?" She nods towards his paper. "They say he faked all his cases, don't they. I'm just saying I reckon he didn't"

He forces a smile, a little stunned at her attitude towards the consulting detective. Not many people tended to go against the opinion of the press.

"What makes you say that?" He asks, wondering at the back of his mind which newspaper is brave enough to try and send a reporter after him. His money is on the Daily Mail.

She pauses, and looks away, her brown eyes thoughtful. Then suddenly she shrugs, giving a little shake of her head to accompany it.

"He seems like a good bloke. 'Sides, I know a man like him. You know..." She thinks for a moment, evidently trying to summon an adequate word. "...clever. It's hard to explain."

John is starting to be a little unnerved by this woman, and is about ready to leave.

"There's no one like Sherlock." He states quietly, firmly. She watches him as he stands, her eyes never leaving his.

"He just seems like the kind of man who would never give up, no matter the cost. Like...he would fake his own death just to prove a point. That he had won."

His hands tighten into a fist, shaking almost violently as he stares at this woman who had just barged into his personal life.

"Who are you?" He asks her, frustrated. His voice remains calm though, just a hint of tension seeping through.

"My name is Rose, John." She says, standing to face him, her posture relaxed and reassuring. He doesn't bother to ask how she knows his name. "And I just wanted to tell you that I believe, alright? I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

There is a lump in his throat, which he cannot dislodge. It will not go away, just like the burning at the corners of his eyes, the tears that are threatening to fall. He looks away, across the café, anywhere but her and those understanding eyes.

"He's dead." John says as firmly as he can, not choking on the word. Not at all. "Alright? I saw him jump. I took his pulse." The anger fades away abruptly, leaving only bitterness. "You can't fake that."

She smiles at him softly and he allows himself to hope for a single second that she knows more about it than he does.

"I think you saw exactly what he told you to see." She muses, tugging at the zipper of her jacket pocket, before slipping a hand into it. "I mean, he was very specific about where you should stand to talk to him, wasn't he?"

She pulls her hand back before reaching out and placing something on the table in front of him. He does not look at it just yet, focused entirely on what she has just said

"Do...Do you know something?" He dares to ask softly. "How could you possibly know...?"

She moves forwards. So close that he can see each individual eyelash, coated in mascara, framing those chocolate eyes. They gleam at him, and he feels entirely helpless for one startling moment.

Then she leans in and pecks him on the cheek, just a quick brush of her lips against his skin, leaving a slight tingle behind.

"He'll see you in the empty house." She says softly. "All you have to do is believe."

So, with that said, she leaves, instantly blending into passing crowds of people outside on the street.

He stares long after she is gone before glancing down at the table. An envelope, small and square. It is a rich, dark blue colour, and that all he can really 'deduce'. He curses himself for not having Sherlocks skill and reaches out, opening it swiftly and tipping it up.

Into his hands fall two objects. The first is a key, nondescript and silver, attached to a thin chain.

The other is a sheet of paper, upon which reads, in Sherlock's messy scrawl, a list.

_1. Broken Sirens._

_2.A cheerful, escapee balloon_

_3. Vandals that support the Cause_

_4. Coffee, freely given_

_5. I'd suggest you follow the Jelly Babies. _

John stares at the page, entirely unsure of what to think.

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**There! That's that chapter done! Did you like it, hate it? Were the characters ok? Be sure to let me know what you think :)**

**Next, a list of coincidences :) and to those who are reading my other stories, they are on their way, I swear x **

**Until the next time, **

**AbsentDaydreamer**

**P.S. The edit tool decided to delete a few words, and I had to replace them, so sorry for the updates to those that are following this!**


	3. Sirens and Dreaming

**Hiiiii! Know how I said this one's the last? Hehe. It's not. I wrote all of the parts down and realised it was WAAAAAAY long, so it's gonna be done bit by bit, clue by clue until the big reuuuuuuunion 3 **

**Please be sure to review, even if it's just a smilie face to say you enjoyed it :) **

**Disclaimer- None of them are mine, regrettably.**

**Enjoy!**

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John has not managed to have a decent night's sleep in months, and tonight has been no exception.

Sometimes he dreams he is back on the street outside St. Bart's, that day, phone pressed tightly to his ear, the figure of Sherlock stood high above him, coat flapping about him in the wind like some dark winged angel.

Sometimes, he manages to say the right words to save him, to convince him to change whatever game it is that the detective is playing. Sometimes he cannot even formulate the words, and he is forced to watch the angel fall. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, it is him that is stood above the world, looking down at his friend, just a small figure, but oh so significant. He drops the phone from his ear, leaving it to clatter on the stone below him. He spreads his arms wide, as though to fly, and he sees the hard ground rushing up to meet him. He hears_ his own voice_ , the desperate cry of a man who knows it is already too late but refuses to believe it.

Tonight is one of those nights He does the same as he always does; it still feels as fresh and as terrifying as when it first played out in his mind.

This time, though, he does not feel the same crushing darkness at the end. No, instead, this time he can do nothing but lie there, trapped within the dream. He can still hear everything around him, dimly. There is a crowd, their voices shocked and horrified, and then he can hear himself calling Sherlock's name, sounding slurred and desperate.

People lift him; hands move him onto a stretcher, but he isn't wheeled away. Not just yet.

A hand slips into his own, warm and comforting, and he strains to look, to do anything. He cannot move. He cannot do anything.

A face pops into his view, a familiar face. He has only seen her once, but the meeting left a deep impression on him. Rose smiles sadly, her brown eyes gleaming with compassion and he longs to speak to her, to ask her _how_, but she leans in, her soft lips brushing against his ear lightly as she whispers to him.

"_Believe_." Her words are earnest, powerful. "And find him."

He wakes with a jolt in the darkness of Baker Street, and sits up abruptly, taking in huge gulps of air as though they are his last.

Calming after a few moments, he glances around the dim room, realising that he had fallen asleep in front of the news again, with the volume low and indistinct. It's some story about a robbery from the Tate. The corner of the screen gives him the time, early enough to get up and ready for the day ahead.

Blearily, John blinks a few times, fully waking up, and reaches for the remote, turning the volume up a little to stifle the emptiness of the room as he stands.

Right. Tea.

_"-The piece in question was to be considered one of the leading paintings of the-"_

He trudges into the kitchen, half listening to the even tones of the morning reporter, moving with well-practised actions, switching the kettle on. Thankfully today he remembers just the one cup.

Sugar, done. Milk? When did he last buy milk...? He pauses, and strides to the fridge, opening it and examining the contents. All perfectly, boringly normal, not a single maimed limb in sight. No milk either.

Bugger.

_"- A fine example of magic realism in the 21st Century, the Broken Siren was expected to fetch near to a million pounds at auction-"_

He huffed, unimpressed and headed back to the kettle, glaring at it as if it were to blame. Fine then, no tea this morning. Because he really didn't fancy a cuppa, thanks very much.

He huffed again, moving into the living room, and shutting the telly off, before heading to shower.

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**There! John didn't even notice it, but there we go. Silly Watson...will he notice the others before it's too late to find Sherlock again?**

**I hope you enjoyed, even if it was short! **

**Please, as always, review :)**

**Until next time!**

**AbsentDaydreamer**


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